“The gambling known as business looks with austere disfavor upon the business known as gambling.” – Ambrose Bierce

I’m standing at the end of a long table and people are exhorting me with cries of, “C’mon Shooter. Let’s go, Shooter, you the man!” I pause to soak it in. I like that, being called “Shooter.” I can’t remember ever having a nifty nickname earlier in life except for one that is in the proctologic area of the anatomy and really not so nifty. Football coaches, Marine Corps drill instructors, and, yes, a few times, my dad, would use that nickname to get my attention. It seems to be popular because most of the time, when that particular invective is shouted out, four or five guys usually turn around simultaneously to see who’s calling them.

But Shooter. It has an old West ring to it. Kind of rogue, like Ringo. Or, The Kid. Maybe even Sundance, except I can’t shoot straight. When I had to qualify with the .45 pistol in the Marine Corps, they found I was more accurate throwing the gun at the target rather than attempting to shoot it. Now my pistols, more appropriate for someone my age and temperament, are in the form of red dice and I’m packing two of them. My point, and I’m happy to finally have one, is 9. Everyone, except an elderly lady puffing away on a Marlboro as though she’s our version of the Icelandic volcano, is rooting for me. Perhaps she was a nun earlier in life; I could never seem to garner their approval either. Instead, I think I was the living embodiment of an incubus. I’m sure if "Rules for Nuns" allowed, they would have echoed my drill instructor’s nickname for me.

You can only hold the drama for so long, so I let those bones fly, bouncing both against the back wall where they ricocheted back to settle on the green velvet table top. One was a 3, the other a 4. I seven’d out before making my point (how reflective this heartless game is to real life) and now everyone hated me except the elderly lady who made enough money on my failure to buy several more cartons of coffin nails.

We are in Massachusetts South or more specifically the Mohegan Sun Casino. Native Americans seem to be few and far between, but Massachusetts residents are storming the gates like Santa Anna at the Alamo. I know that’s a lot of different cultures to absorb in one paragraph, so we’ll just settle for suckers. Since the inception of Mohegan Sun and its sprawling, biggest-in-the-world brother, Foxwoods, billions of dollars have crossed the Massachusetts line only to be left behind by guys like Shooter and Ringo. I know it’s an old complaint, but like an arthritic knee, it doesn’t get better just because you realize it hurts.

Now it appears we’re thinking about a couple of casinos and a scattering of slot machines in our own state. It’s nice to have people you don’t know (or generally approve of) making decisions about how you spend your hard earned dollars, isn’t it? But year after year, that’s been the case in the Nay State, where the puritanical lance remains impaled in the heart and our politicians know what’s best for us.

There are benefits to casinos you might not have thought of. For one, it gives former pop stars a bridge between sold-out coliseums and rocking chairs on the lawns of nursing homes (keep on rockin’ boys). Consider, for example, the recent lineup of entertainment at Mohegan Sun: Badfinger, Bernie Williams (yes, the retired Yankee who is now playing the guitar instead of centerfield), the ubiquitous and perpetually irritating Bowzer (sans Sha Na Na), Orleans (the band, not the town), and the immortal Hoobastank (which I’m pretty sure I caught once while on R&R in Bangkok). What, wasn’t Connie Stevens available?

Back to Massachusetts gambling. What happened to the good old notion of free market? Now that the former Massachusetts Speaker of the House, Sal DiMasi, who was so anti-casino, is doing the legal bunny hop like so many Speakers before him, there is a glimmer of hope for casinos. This doesn’t reflect on any enlightenment striking our current gaggle of lawmakers, only that they’ve run out of new sources of revenue. Let’s face it, Massachusetts casinos have been an inevitability since the first Shooter from Marstons Mills drove over the bridge and made his 6 the hard way.

Of course hardly anybody wants his town to host a casino. We’d have to build another bridge if we allowed a casino on Cape Cod. Maybe a tunnel would be better so all those comedians with the Cape Cod Tunnel sticker would finally be validated.

In no time at all, the dice is passed back to me and once again, I’m The Shooter. The elderly lady at the end of the table has evidently gone off to a Marlboro puffing contest. This time I’m going to try the mental approach. I visualize a 4 and a 3, rattle them bones, and let ’em fly. This roll’s for Massachusetts.